Movie review: 'Scotty and the Secret History of Hollywood' dishes the dirt on on 40s film stars

By Al Alexander/For The Patriot Ledger

Saturday

Aug 18, 2018 at 5:36 PMAug 19, 2018 at 10:30 AM

If you lay down on the ground, you have a choice: You can either see dirt or you can see stars. Scotty Bowers was one of those rare people who could see both at the same time. And, oh, what stars he could see: Katharine Hepburn, Spencer Tracy, Cary Grant, Rock Hudson, Lana Turner, Ava Gardner, Walter Pidgeon and J. Edgar Hoover. Wait, J. Edgar Hoover? What does he have to do with this collection of screen legends? For a full explanation see “Scotty and the Secret History of Hollywood,” director Matt Tyrnauer’s salacious, name-dropping profile of Bowers and the clandestine sex factory he ran out of a small Hollywood Boulevard gas station in the dozen or so years following World War II.

That’s where the dirt comes in. You might have noticed that all the folks mentioned above have died, giving Bowers the liberty to sling mud without reprisal. And, boy, does he dish. Although he’s in his 90s, Bowers is still handsome, fit and equipped with a razor-sharp memory that recalls every sexual peccadillo, every hookup and every place his clients bumped uglies. Forget the Hollywood Madam; he was the real thing, the Tinseltown Pimp who knew how to win the trust — and the lucrative business ($20 a pop) — of stars eager to violate their morals clauses with quick trips to the “service station’s” restroom or more dignified rolls in the beds he kept in a trailer out back or the no-tell motel across the street. He even made house calls, as was the case when he was invited to the palatial homes of Pidgeon and director George Cukor for a quickie by the swimming pool.

Most of his clients were closeted gays, lesbians and bisexuals who wanted to make Hollywood their own personal Babylon. And Bowers did everything he could to accommodate them, including very kinky visits by King Edward and Wallis Simpson at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Best of all, his lips were sealed — until now. The movie is very much a companion to his controversial 2012 tell-all, “Full Service,” which set people talking and tempers roiling over his decision to “out” dead celebrities. As with the book, Tyrnauer’s movie is neck deep in aspersions. How you feel about that will well determine how you feel about “Scotty.” If you think him a backstabber maligning the dead, stay away. But if you feel, like me, that his revelations aren’t exactly what you’d call news, come on in. The fun is in the kinky details of how your favorite stars of old got their rocks off.

For Katharine Hepburn, it was a steady stream of fresh meat. According to Bowers, he fixed the legend up with more than 150 females over a 39-year period. He also discounts the popular myth that she was secretly trysting with supposed lifelong crush, Spencer Tracy, who Bowers tells us only liked men, and would weep in self-inflicted shame after every hookup. That stuff is easier to believe than his claim that he once shared a bed with Lana Turner and Ava Gardner in Frank Sinatra’s house. Although, it’s hard to doubt him when he comes equipped with dozens of photos of him and the stars he abetted. He also offers testimony from a large regiment of hunky hustlers, many of them fellow WWII vets hungry for work, who, like him, were eager to provide oral sex to the stars.

One of them, two-bit actor and onetime Clint Eastwood pal, Beach Dickerson (godfather to Corbin Bernsen), clearly held a special place in Bowers’ heart — and vice versa. When Dickerson died in 2005, he bequeathed his house in the Hollywood Hills to Bowers. He also left him in charge of his ashes, which sat remarkably for years in the trunk of Dickerson’s car, parked inside a cluttered garage. And it’s not our first indication that Bowers is a chronic hoarder. He owns numerous Hollywood homes and all of them are filled to the rafters in old newspapers and memorabilia. His long-suffering wife, lounge singer Lois, is understandably worried she will one day trip and break her neck.

The collecting is merely a symptom of a deeply repressed case of PTSD, acquired first during a childhood full of sexual abuse and doubled down on by participation in some of the most bloody battlefields in the Pacific. He’s witnessed numerous other tragedies best discovered for yourself. Just know they are heartbreaking. And therein lies this film’s greatest strength, and that would be the tremendous amount of empathy you feel for a guy who probably doesn’t deserve it. It’s just that he’s so personable, so likable and so full of riveting stories about the golden age of Hollywood that you bow at his feet. His dozens of amazing photos only add to the experience.

Beware, though, Bowers speaks in explicit terms and the accompanying stock videos Tyrnauer uses to accompany some of the stories are graphic in nature. Be prepared for a plethora of penises and tight buttocks. But also be prepared to be transported to a time when stars were mythic, mainly because we knew so little about them. No more. Social media, the tabloids and TMZ have robbed them of even a hint of mystery. Homosexuality also is no longer relegated to the shadows, making guys like Scotty Bowers unnecessary, which is great. But you’re glad that he existed when he did, accomplishing his No. 1 goal: Making celebrities happy.